


A brief tale of dead poets and resilient teachers.

by crostiina



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teachers, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 05:35:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,457
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20109970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crostiina/pseuds/crostiina
Summary: Latin professor and local idiot Ronan Lynch thinks he's being subtle by leaving romantic poetry in a dead language for science teacher and confused soul Adam Parrish to find. He's not.





	A brief tale of dead poets and resilient teachers.

**Author's Note:**

> I am very much italian, so all of this was written the italian school system in mind, where latin classes are more likely than they have any right to be and every group of students stay in the same class at all hours. Gansey is a history teacher in this one, if someone was wondering.

The first time Adam saw Ronan Lynch, he hadn’t really struck him as the romantic, strongly passionate type. But he made for an unusual Latin teacher, for sure, with his buzz cut and loud mouth, lean and tall in a way that made him hard to miss and with deep inquisitive eyes even harder to forget. He mostly saw him talking with Gansey, out of all the other teachers, a pair that looked both absurd and impossibly close, like an invisible line made of history and dead emperors magically tied them together. Or maybe they were just college friends and he was still trying to adjust to the new school, to process the weird impression of being the odd one out that had accompanied him during his own high school years.

So he just tried not to think about them. About Lynch, in particular, with his sharp smile and impossibly handsome face. It got a little harder, though, after the time he noticed the sharp edge of a tattoo peaking from the collar of his button up shirt  and felt the strong need to see how far it went down his back.

It was also impossible not to hear him outside class, Adam found out, his voice deep and maybe slightly overexcited as he analysed verses with older students or even explained basic rules for the younger ones. That was the first actual thing he learned about Ronan Lynch: in a crowd of bored and irritable teachers, he was genuinely passionate about his job, in love with what he taught to the point Adam had often caught himself accidentally listening to his lessons from the hall, drawn in by the sheer enthusiasm the other put in every lecture. He liked that detail more than he was ready to admit and it was all downhill from there, with his mind all over the place every time their eyes met. Something that happened every often, with a scheduled appointment every tuesday and friday, when Lynch’s class ended and his began, one after the other, in the same room.

Sometimes, as he shamefully marinated into his embarrassing adult crush, Adam seemed to notice something different about their brief exchanges, he other man’s gaze lingering on him a bit too much, his expression slightly changing. He immediately dismissed it as his brain playing tricks on him to help him cope with his feelings, since they barely spoke except some obligated courtesies or a brief and funny comment about this or that situation from time to time. Of course, nothing stopped him from actually trying to get to know him or even ask him out, but something about Lynch seemed just too cool and intimidating to leave space for someone like him, no matter how nice he sounded from outside the classroom door. Or maybe it wasn’t.

It started a month after the beginning of the year. The first time he didn’t even thought about it, when he saw the words written in chalk over the black board.

_ille mi par esse deo videtur,_

_ille, si fas est, superare divos,_

_qui sedens adversus identidem te_

_spectat et audit_

_dulce ridentem, misero quod omnes_

_eripit sensus mihi*_

Poetry and literature were part of the scheduled program, Catullus was one of the first authors in every literature book, he had studied him too, back in school. It was nothing out of the ordinary, he thought he was probably analysing the poem, as the complicated geometry of circled and underline words easily suggested, so he didn’t try to link anything to the sly smile Lynch had showed him when they exchanged a quick greeting outside the classroom door.

Same was for the week after, or the one that followed: he was a passionate teacher, maybe that was his favourite author, it made sense.

It got weird after the fourth one, when he entered the class and Catullus’ words were there again, in the same elegant writing, no mark or translation. The words were simply there without a reason, barely a decoration.

_soles occidere et redire possunt:_

_nobis cum semel occidit breuis lux,_

_nox est perpetua una dormienda._

_da mi basia mille, deinde centum,_

_dein mille altera, dein secunda centum,_

_deinde usque altera mille, deinde centu.**_

His Latin was a bit rusty, after all those years, but that was another obvious one. He couldn’t help letting out a nervous chuckle, before he went on with his lecture, a bit more distant than usual, distracted by the peculiar idea of Ronan Lynch writing about love and kisses on the same board that was sitting behind his back. It didn’t feel like a coincidence anymore, it never did again.

Week after week, he kept finding quotes every time the other left. Sometimes there was just one verse, sometimes a whole poem, without any sign of analysis, like they had been written just for him. Lynch always smiled a different smile when they crossed path before he found them, like a mischievous child that had just gotten away with something.

Did he think Adam hadn’t notice? He was a science teacher, but that didn’t make him incapable of putting two and two together. Maybe he just thought he didn’t understand, which was actually comprehensible, since it had been a while since the last time he actually sat trough a Latin class. But Adam had a history as an extremely diligent student, he just couldn’t forget certain things.

Still, he never said anything to his face, never mentioned it, the brief expression he showed him during those moments the only proof Ronan was even aware of what he was doing. Maybe he wasn’t meant to find out, he realized. Maybe the other just liked to dance around the idea of pursuing him, without the proper intention to make a move. But Adam wasn’t one to beg, so he didn’t either: that was a battle he intended to win.

Then, one day, it was too much. He didn’t always recognized immediately the poem, but that was a different thing. Ronan couldn’t know it was his favourite one.

_huc est mens deducta tua, mea Lesbia, culpa_

_atque ita se officio perdidit ipsa suo***_

It was just a slap in the face. Too beautiful, too misused. He couldn’t ignore it.

He looked at the students, like the answer to that ridiculous situation had been written into their faces. Of course, they didn’t care, those were barely translation exercises for them.

So he gave up, excused himself for a moment and rushed trough the hall, to catch that mess of a Latin teacher before he could go elsewhere.

“Lynch.” he called, panting after he’d ran through the entire floor and slightly pissed off.

Ronan didn’t flinch, perfectly sound under what he probably thought to be a linguistic armour.

“Parrish.” he answered, his demeanor calm in a way that made him want to punch him. What a straight-faced fucker. He wasn’t even nervous anymore, just eager to get one step ahead of him.

Adam caught his breath for a moment, then showed him a cocky smile.

“_ut iam nec bene velle queat tibi, s__i__ optima f__i__ās,/ nec d__a__sistere am__a__re, omnia s__i__ faci__a__s.****_” he iterated perfectly. Again, he didn’t know many poems by memory, that was just an unfortunate coincidence. “You know, you could just ask me out for coffee, if what I do _destroys _you so much.” 

Ronan’s smile dropped, his expression shocked in a way that was pure bliss. He didn’t even try denying it or even undermining it.

It was so satisfying that Adam didn’t even think about the implications, about Ronan Lynch showering him in love poems and actually being interested in him. 

Big miscalculation, on his part, because he was caught off guard right back.

Ronan shrugged, letting his lips slightly curl on one corner. One of those charming, mischievous smiles of his.

“I’ll wait for you after class, then.”

_*He seems to me to be equal to a god, _

_he, if it is permissible, seems to surpass the gods,_

_who sitting opposite again and again_

_watches and hears you_

_sweetly laughing, which rips out all senses_

_**Suns may set and rise again;_

_for us, when once the brief light has set,_

_an eternal night must be slept. _

_Give me a thousand kisses, then a hundred,_

_then another thousand, then a second hundred,_

_then yet another thousand, then a hundred_

_***At this point [my] mind is so broken down by your doing, my Lesbia,_

_that it destroys itself by its own devotion_

_****so that it can no longer wish you well, even if you should become the best,_

_nor can it stop loving you, no matter what you should do._

**Author's Note:**

> I literally wrote this in a madwoman rampage at 3 a.m. after a weird saturday night because of the funny and adorable idea Kayla (lynchniall on tumblr) shared on the infamous and wonderful screeming discord chat. it's full of Catullus because there is no universe in which Ronan isn't obsessed with the saltier and softer latin boy of them all, at least to me.  
Adam's favorite is also my favorite because I wrote this and I like playing God and projecting.  
I hope you enjoyed it, it's short and silly but I liked writing it a lot.


End file.
